Dean awoke yet again to the screeching sound of Sam struggling to find a comfortable position on his bed. He had to repress the urge to groan at his little brother. Since Sam went off to Stanford, Dean's 'little brother' had grown bigger than him. Dean could remember all 220 lbs of Sam stomping along with him wherever the job dragged them. That was a year ago.
Now, Sam was a shadow of his former self. His jawline was stark, his cheek bones poked out, and he appeared to have lost almost all his hulking muscles. Now, Sam would drown in Dean's shadow rather than the other way around. At least he still had his height. The blanket that had been tucked underneath Sam's chin got yanked down when he kicked his long legs out while trying a new position. Dean sighed inwardly when he saw the pressure bruises on Sam's shoulder blades and lower back.
His little brother's rib cage and spine swam beneath his pasty skin. Sam started to shiver and pulled up the blanket, his feet poking out at the end. A few moments later, the man's big feet began to shiver, too. Dean swallowed hard and bit his tongue. If it weren't such a 'chick-flick moment' thing to do, he would hold his little brother in his arms till the pain melted away.
It has been a little more than two months since Sam, unwittingly, opened the gate to Lucifer's cage. Dean has made it loud and clear how angry he was with Sam. How much he didn't trust him anymore, how disappointed he was, how betrayed he felt ... how much he didn't love him anymore. The last one was never said out-loud. Dean wasn't stupid.
He knew his apparently hostile and indifferent attitude towards Sam's continuing failing health can only be interpreted that way. Before all this, Dean would have gotten to the bottom of the problem and found a solution. But, it's difficult to admit when the problem is yourself. He had hardly spoken to Sam since the event. The silence between them was making him nauseous.
He knew Sam more than felt the same way, he could see it right in front of him 24/7. He knew he had the power to make all this go away. If only he could swallow his own pain. If only it didn't feel like swallowing a semi-truck.
"Help ... me," he heard an almost unrecognizable voice breathe.
Dean sat bolt upright in his bed, his eyes wide as he stared at Sam. His brother was still asleep. Dean knew he wasn't faking. Sam had been talking in his sleep since he could remember. He sank back onto his bed. Sam started to groan and he curled up slowly into a ball on his bad, the squeaky springs inside the mattress screaming as he did so. The groans sounded so weak. Dean bit the inside of his cheeks and turned his back on Sam.
"My ... arm," Sam gasped, "hurts."
Dean rolled his eyes and glanced over his shoulder. What he saw nearly made him jump out of his skin. Sam had rolled over again and he was staring right at Dean. Something wasn't right in Sam's mood-ring eyes. They were glazed over and red. For a moment, Dean doubted his brother could see him at all.
"Sam?" Dean leapt out of his bed and tumbled to the ground when he forgot to lift his blankets off first; he gripped Sam's wrist and knelt at his bedside. "What's going on with you?"